


The Touch of Your Hand

by Mackem



Series: How Hard It Is To Come Home [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Savoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has a migraine. Porthos is determined to help. Both get slightly more than they expect from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Touch of Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/gifts).



> Goodness me, I actually finished the fic I said I'd finish! Mostly because [dairyme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme) is fantastic, both at being a beta and encouraging me to do stuff. Any mistakes left in here are all mine!
> 
> So this [the end of a little series I've written](http://archiveofourown.org/series/178385) I've written, establishing how Porthos and Aramis get together. By no means do you need to have read the previous two, though it might make one of Porthos' comments make a little more sense to you. I've tagged this as past Marsac/Aramis but there's only a brief reference to it; beyond that it's Porthos/Aramis all the way. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Rated teen purely for one use of a swearword, and a story about a violent incident. Beyond that, H/C and fluff.

He is not sleeping, precisely. Aramis rarely manages to sleep when these accursed headaches descend upon him. 

It is intensely frustrating; after years of seeking relief, he has learned that even though rest is by far the best medicine, it will always remain stubbornly out of his grasp. He knows by now that the best he can expect is to lurk in bed, eyes clenched shut against the light, awkwardly straddling the line between miserable consciousness and blessed rest until his headache relents enough to let sleep claim him.

The sharp rap at his door startles him out of an uncomfortable doze, sending shocks of pain through his head when tries to sit upright. His eyes fly open at the same time and immediately protest against the sunlight coming through the closed shutters. At the sound of another insistent knock Aramis flops back down and rolls onto his belly to bury his head in the pillow. He lets out a pitiful groan, then belatedly hopes he wasn't heard.

He has no such luck. “Aramis?” a voice calls through the door. Despite the pounding in his head, Aramis cannot help the wry quirk of his lips at the sound; he might have guessed it would be Porthos.

He clears his dry throat, and aims for his usual carefree tone when he answers. “Yes, Porthos?” The attempt falls short, and he winces at the sound of his own voice. He sounds weak and pained. Which he _is_ , admittedly, but he would prefer that his friend not realise this.

Sadly, Porthos has proven adept at seeing through him, even though they have known one another for a scant handful of months. He knocks firmly on the door again. Aramis whines and curls up with his aching head wrapped in his arms. “You all right in there?” Porthos calls, and before Aramis can so much as open his mouth, he adds dryly, “and I won't take ‘I'm not dead’ as an answer, before you try it.”

“Even if I can assure you that I'm not?” Aramis says feebly in return.

“I'd like to see it for myself,” Porthos says with a laugh. “C’mon, let me in, ey?”

The seconds drag on, but Aramis’ thoughts move much too slowly to provide a reason why Porthos should not come in, save out of concern for Aramis’ pride; but he has precious little of that at the moment, as he huddles beneath his blanket and hides from the world like a child.

“Fine,” he sighs eventually. “If you insist.”

There is an immediate thud against his door; it sends an answering thump of pain to Aramis’ head. “You’ve locked yourself in! If you think that’ll keep me out, you’ve got another think coming. Either get your arse out of bed and open this door, or I’ll keep knocking until I’ve beaten a hole in it.” He lets loose another horribly loud volley of knocks, which stop when Aramis lets out a miserable whimper of protest. “Are you all right?” Porthos adds after a pause, the good humour in his voice giving way to concern.

“Yes, yes, I’m _fine_ ,” Aramis says through gritted teeth. “I’m coming, just - just give me a moment, please?”

It takes a couple of seconds to drag himself upright, fighting the rush of pain and nausea that rolls over him as he goes. He forces his eyes open, blinking helplessly against the flickering lights that dance in his vision. He allows himself a long moment to try and pull himself together, hoping to seem something like his usual self for Porthos’ sake, before he gives it up as a lost cause. Eventually he sighs and levers himself to his bare feet.

He makes his way towards the door by closing one eye and squinting with the other, inching through the room with an arm held out for balance. His stomach swirls unhappily as he moves, and his limbs feel leaden, his legs moving as awkwardly as though he were walking through marshland, but he gets to the door without incident. It is hardly much of a victory, but Aramis rejoices in it nonetheless.

The click of the key turning in the lock is far louder than it has any right to be. Aramis plasters his best attempt at a smile onto his face, but it vanishes when the door swings open and light streams in behind Porthos, leaving him wincing and backing away. He instinctively throws his forearm up to cover his eyes with a garbled noise of protest, and is grateful for the way Porthos immediately grabs his shoulder to steady him.

“Whoa! What the hell?” Porthos laughs, and Aramis’ head _throbs_.

“Please, keep your voice down?” he pleads, trying to keep his eyes open. He manages a very watery view of Porthos in front of him, wavering in his disturbed vision, before the blinding sunlight has him stumbling back. His stomach roils, protesting as he moves around, and he cannot stop himself from retching.

“Hey - watch out,” Porthos says, alarmed as he slips out of his grasp. Aramis is not certain where his wobbly legs take him, but his shin cracks against something solid before strong hands grab him by the arms. His head continues to spin as Porthos drags Aramis close, and his stomach heaves despite his best efforts, but at least the rest of his body is stationary. He gags again and hurriedly presses the back of his hand over his mouth. 

“You gonna throw up?” Porthos asks, concern lying thick on his voice. 

Aramis swallows hard against the watering in his mouth. “No,” he says, more out of hope than belief. He's already emptied his stomach today, having struggled off his horse to throw up by the side of the road as he returned to Paris. The sheep whose field he had invaded had not seemed too concerned about his well-being, and had mostly left him to his own devices as he knelt in the grass and retched fitfully. Thank the heavens his horse knows the route back to the garrison; God above only knows where they would have ended up if Aramis had been required to lead the way through the dazzling spots in his vision.

“All right, then. Let’s get you off your feet,” Porthos says, and walks him across the room, hands firm and commanding on his upper arms. Aramis merely moves with him, giving in to his direction without a second thought. He sits gratefully on the edge of his bed when Porthos guides him down, resting his head in his hands.

“Sure you don't need to throw up?” Porthos asks, and bless him, he keeps his voice low.

“I already have. There's nothing left for me to bring up,” Aramis mumbles. A large hand settles between his shoulder blades, rubbing in soothing circles. He sags beneath the touch, taking immeasurable comfort from it.

With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine it is -

\- _stop it._

He opens his eyes and forces himself look at his companion. It is Porthos here with him, nobody else. He will not allow his mind to play such tricks on him. Not when Porthos has gone to the effort of seeking him out.

“Why are you here?” Aramis asks, his voice thin. “You should be eating. I asked Serge to tell you I wouldn't be joining you.”

“Yeah, he passed your message along,” Porthos says easily. He slides his hand from Aramis' back to curl under his chin, raising his head a little. Aramis yields to the blessedly cool touch of his fingers without protest. He allows Porthos to move him as he wishes, pleased at least that Porthos’ form before him blocks the light a little. Porthos’ dark eyes rove over Aramis' face, his lips pursing in concern as he does. “Serge _also_ told me you looked sick as a dog. He wasn’t wrong.”

Aramis manages a weak smile, feeling his spirits rise merely with the presence of his friend. “Please,” he says, “you are doing unwell dogs a grave disservice.”

Porthos laughs. Even as the sound makes his head pound, Aramis chuckles softly in return. There is always pleasure in making Porthos laugh. “I dunno,” Porthos says thoughtfully, tipping Aramis' head back with gentle hands, “with that hair? You could easily be mistaken for an ill spaniel.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Aramis murmurs with a twitch of his lips. 

Porthos smiles, before giving him a concerned look. “What's the matter with you, then? Have you caught something?”

“No, I'm not ill,” Aramis says, risking a shake of his head. It is a mistake; he winces and squeezes his eyes shut at the pounding in his skull.

Porthos snorts. “Whatever you say.”

“I'm not! I swear it.”

“Do you think I’m blind?” Porthos asks pointedly. “You can’t expect me to believe you’re feeling all right. You can barely hold your head up.”

Aramis sighs. “I have a headache.”

“Bullshit!”

“But I do,” Aramis says helplessly, opening eyes bruised with weariness. He takes in Porthos' dubious expression and offers him a weak smile. “Granted, it is a particularly _bad_ headache.”

“One that's left you weak as a kitten?” Porthos asks pointedly. 

Aramis manages a strangled laugh. “Dogs, kittens. It seems I am quite the menagerie today,” he says, pleased by the reluctant smile he teases from his friend. It doesn’t last long.

“Aramis. Don't try and tell me you're fine. You look half-dead.”

“And I feel it,” he sighs. “Believe me, I'm not claiming to feel well. But I promise you, I'm not ill. I simply get these headaches, now and then. And they knock me on my arse, certainly,” he adds as Porthos frowns.

“And these headaches make you throw up?”

“Yes!” Aramis snaps. He has had this conversation far too many times. “I swear to you, Porthos. I'm not ill. I merely have the worst headache you can imagine.”

“Did you have a bit too much to drink last night, then?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis groans at the mere thought of drinking. “I don't mean the kind of headache you get after too much wine.”

“So what _do_ you mean?” Porthos asks, dropping into a crouch between Aramis' knees. Aramis spreads his legs to make room for him without a second thought, and aims exhausted eyes down at him, squinting as the sunlight hits his eyes once again. Porthos gives him an encouraging smile. “You look like shit, Aramis. It isn’t like you.”

“More flattery,” says Aramis.

Porthos chuckles. “You _would_ find a way to take that as a compliment. I mean it. I'm worried about you.” His eyes are earnest in the shuttered light.

“Whatever did I do before I had you to fret about me?” Aramis near-whispers, doing his best to ignore the flutter of his heart when faced with this gentle concern. Truly, he cannot imagine how he had ever managed without Porthos. Was it really only a few months since they had met? It feels as if he has always known him.

He closes his eyes, suddenly wary of what might show if he looks at Porthos. He certainly isn't thinking clearly. And really, he realises, that is as good a place as any to start. “It's not a simple ache in my head,” he says slowly. “Though that is a large part of it. A headache so intense that it is hard to think through it. But it also makes me feel sick, and leaves me exhausted. It makes light impossible to bear. And it makes me see things.”

“See things?” Porthos exclaims, his eyebrows climbing.

“Not... I don't mean I see things which aren't there,” Aramis explains tiredly. “My sanity is fine, I assure you.”

“I'll settle for your sanity being no less disturbed than usual.” He sounds relieved. “How do you mean, then?”

Aramis lifts a hand up to the left of his face and wiggles his fingers in the air. The effect on his distorted vision leaves his head protesting and his eyes in a watery squint, but he peers determinedly at Porthos regardless, willing him to understand. “You see this? Where my fingers are, it’s as if there are ripples in my vision.”

“Ripples,” Porthos echoes uncertainly.

“It is as if what I can see, just there, is moving. Or - no, not quite. It’s like I'm looking at things through water, but only in that spot,” Aramis says, struggling to think. He’s not sure that he’s making sense at all, but Porthos is watching him as though the subject is fascinating. Very few people have ever done more than merely dismiss his affliction as his being over-dramatic in the face of a headache, as though Aramis would not willingly shake it off if he could; and yet Porthos looks at him without a touch of mocking. Aramis gathers his thoughts, and perseveres. “And it’s bright, too. Sometimes it’s as if there are flashing lights there, flickering, like sunshine on waves. Sometimes it’s more constant, like I’m staring into the sun at midday, and I can’t look away.”

Porthos' eyebrows rise, and he whistles softly. “It sounds awful.”

“It certainly isn’t pleasant,” Aramis agrees, giving in to temptation and screwing his eyes shut. He rests his aching head in his hands again, his palms pressing over his eyes. “And the entire time, I feel as if there would be relief in opening up my skull. That it might let the pressure out, at least.”

“And what little brain you have. Let's leave that as a backup plan, ey?” Porthos says dryly. He smoothes a large hand over the back of Aramis’ head as silence falls between them for a moment, his touch as welcome and soothing as it always is. Aramis bites his lower lip for fear of showing too much appreciation, and merely breathes raggedly through the throbbing in his skull. 

Porthos clears his throat after a while, and a finger pushes Aramis’ hair back from his forehead, at the temple. “These headaches. Did they start after…?”

“Mm?” Aramis asks, confused. When Porthos does not answer he lifts his head, giving him a bewildered blink. Porthos says nothing, but when he gently traces a line over Aramis’ forehead, disappearing into his hair, suddenly his meaning is clear.

Aramis withdraws immediately, pulling away from his hand. He curls up against the wall, hating the way his heart is thudding rapidly. “Believe it or not,” he snaps over the frantic race of his pulse in his ears, “I have problems which pre-date Savoy.”

Porthos' eyes widen in surprise. “I know - I'm not saying -”

“I am not shaped purely by what happened in Savoy,” Aramis insists as his stomach churns violently. He swallows hard against the bile rising in his throat. Porthos reaches for him, a rueful look on his face, and Aramis takes his hand immediately, seeking the comfort he offers despite the flash of frustration his assumption has ignited.

“I know you’re not,” Porthos says, guilt lying thick on his words. “I know. I’m sorry.” Porthos tries to take his hand back but Aramis does not let him. He squeezes Porthos' fingers tightly, and tells himself it is only to stop his own from shaking. He swallows and drops his eyes, speaking in barely more than a whisper.

“I lived through it, but I lived _before_ it, too. I am more than just a memory of that time. There is more to me than just a... a few bad days in a snowy forest. Do you understand?” His voice trembles despite his effort to remain calm, and he wonders which of them he's trying to convince.

Porthos sighs, and runs his free hand over his face. “I understand,” he says roughly. “I do. I mean it, Aramis, I’m sorry. D’you want me to go?”

“No, I... Please don’t. It’s fine,” Aramis manages. He closes his eyes again and leans his head back against the wall, struggling to collect himself. Porthos tugs on his hand and Aramis releases him, feeling the loss immediately. His forehead tingles where Porthos' touch had traced over it. He blames the throbbing in his head.

“Are you sure?” Porthos asks warily. 

Aramis wraps his arms tightly around himself. “Yes. Please. It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine,” Porthos insists. “I've got no right to speak like I know what you went through.”

“You're not the first to do so,” Aramis says, his voice hollow. He meets Porthos' eyes and offers him a weak smile. “And I'm sure you won't be the last. I appreciate the apology, at least. Thank you for that much.”

When Porthos speaks, it is in a low, soothing rumble; his expression is painfully earnest. “I just don't want you to believe that's all I think of you.”

Something inside Aramis settles, immediately soothed. He does not doubt Porthos; his friend has always been honest and true, and it pains Aramis to hear him sound so wounded. “I don't. You have never made me think that. It’s not you,” he admits. “It's just that…”

“You can tell me,” Porthos says softly, as if it is that simple. Maybe it is.

“I wish I could simply forget about Savoy,” Aramis says. He feels weak, in a way he has been attempting to repress since he returned to the garrison months ago, riding behind a cart piled high with his brothers like a vulture following carrion.

Porthos nods, as if he understands completely. There is no pity in his eyes; only kindness. “How about this,” he says slowly. “Any time you want to talk about it, I'll listen. Whenever you want, whenever you're ready. _If_ you're ever ready - and I’m not saying you ever will be, or that you have to be,” Porthos assures him. “But until that day, until you mention it, I will never bring Savoy up again. If that's what you want.”

The surge of relief that floods through Aramis is overwhelming. “Yes,” he says with a shaky smile. “Yes, please.”

“And I'll not presume to know what you're going through, either. I just assumed,” Porthos sighs. “I knew a man who... but you're not him.”

“Not who?” Aramis asks, his interest immediately piqued. Porthos does not talk about his past. Aramis respects this, and yet his curiosity about him is insatiable. Normally he restrains himself from asking, as he knows only too well how it is to run away from your past, but now, when it feels as if iron bands are tightening around his aching head, he has forgotten his manners. “Forgive me,” he says shortly. “I don't mean to pry.”

“You're not prying,” Porthos says. Aramis gives him a surprised look, and Porthos shrugs. “I know that much. I know the difference between an innocent question about a friend’s life, and wanting horror stories about the mongrel's time in the gutter.”

“You're _not_ -” Aramis insists immediately, but Porthos gives him a smile and shushes him gently.

“- _I_ know I'm not. Try telling that to most other people, though,” he says, shrugging shoulders that are decidedly tense.

“I will,” Aramis says firmly. 

Porthos chuckles, but it rings hollow. Aramis reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. Porthos settles his hand over Aramis’, and gives him a genuine smile.

“God bless good intentions,” he murmurs fondly. “Don't blame me when your pretty nose ends up broken.”

“I'd give just as good as I got,” Aramis assures him. “So. Will you tell me about this man you knew?”

Porthos gives him an appraising look. “Hearing me go on won't make your head worse?”

“I should be fine, so long as you don't incorporate cannon fire into your tale,” Aramis says with a tight smile. 

Porthos laughs appreciatively, then silences himself when Aramis winces as the noise bounces around the room. “Sorry. Some help I am. Well, then, if you really want to know -”

“ - I want to know everything about you,” Aramis says easily. He basks in the warmth of Porthos’ grin, and smiles when Porthos pointedly presses a finger over his lips.

“You’d better shush, then, and give me time to tell you.” He takes a moment, before saying slowly, “There was a man I knew a little, back in the Court. Andre. I wasn't close to him, not really.”

“He wasn't a friend of yours?”

“He didn't run with us,” Porthos agrees. Aramis feels his curiosity sparking yet again at the word 'us'; he has to bite down on his lip lest he launch into yet more questions. “But I knew him, a bit. And one day he got hurt.”

“Badly?” Aramis asks, and Porthos nods. 

“I don’t really know _how_ it happened,” Porthos admits, his eyes staring into the past. “He was trampled by a horse, I know that much, but I heard all kinds of stories about how it happened. That the Red Guards had run him down because they caught him stealing, that he was _trying_ to get himself killed, that he was pushing some kid out of the way of a runaway cart... I never found out for sure. All I know is that he took a hoof to his head... Yeah,” he sighs as Aramis winces instinctively. “It was as bad as it sounds. We all thought he’d die. He didn’t, but... maybe it would have been a mercy if he had. God, that sounds -”

“There is mercy in death,” Aramis says immediately. “Anyone who has seen suffering knows that much. What happened to him?”

“He recovered. Sort of, at least, but he was never the same. He had fits,” he says heavily. “Bad ones, often. And headaches so bad he could barely speak. And his memory... it was as if big chunks of it had just been taken away. Sometimes he’d look at you and have no idea who you were, even if you'd only been talking to him an hour ago.”

“Did he improve?”

Porthos shakes his head. “Eventually he was fitting every day. Every few hours. One day, he just...didn't come out of it. His poor mother,” he says roughly, as his voice trails off. Aramis reaches out a hand to rest at the side of his neck, thumb stroking over the base of his throat in the hopes of providing some small comfort.

Porthos is silent for a long moment, before he lifts his head to give Aramis a soft look. “Anyway. That's what I was thinking when I asked - not anything else. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise to me,” says Aramis. “But thank you, for telling me that.”

Porthos smiles, before getting to his feet. “But I didn’t come in here to talk your ear off,” he says firmly. “I came to see if I could make you feel better.”

“Which is very sweet of you,” Aramis says with a weak smile, “but really, there’s nothing to be done. There’s not much that helps.”

“Not much isn’t the same as nothing, is it?” Porthos counters. He gazes around the room, lips pursed thoughtfully, then looks at the window. “You said light is hard to bear?”

“It is,” Aramis says, glancing at the window and having to look away with a wince. The shutters are hardly expertly-made, and light streams in through the loose slats. Porthos nods.

“Right, then. So I'll have to do something about that. You lie down,” he says easily, as Aramis blinks bleary eyes at him.

“What?” he asks, his addled brain confused by this turn of events. Porthos gives him a ridiculously fond smile.

“Lie down,” he says again. “I bet you’ll feel better for getting your head down. You were sleeping before I barged in here, weren’t you?”

“Not precisely. I cannot sleep in this state,” Aramis says with a helpless shrug.

“We’ll see,” Porthos says, and turns on his heel. “Go on, lie down. I’ll be back soon.”

Porthos leaves, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. Aramis stares after him. He’s not certain what Porthos is thinking, but he is right in that Aramis feels better when he is prostrate, so he forces his sluggish limbs to shift and lies down. He closes his eyes against the light and attempts to relax.

It feels as if no time at all has passed when his door creaks open once more. He cracks an eye open to see Porthos returning with a bundle beneath one arm and a pitcher of water in the other. Porthos gently closes the door behind him as Aramis moves to sit up. “No, stay where you are,” Porthos insists, and Aramis is much too tired to disobey.

“I don’t _require_ help, you know,” he says as he watches Porthos. “These headaches pass on their own, eventually.”

“That’s no reason not to help you, now is it?” Porthos scoffs. “I don’t like to see you in pain. I’m not _used_ to seeing you in pain.”

Aramis smiles tiredly. “I recall you laughing when I stubbed my toe only yesterday.”

“Because you called the table a shit-eating bastard born of the devil’s arsehole,” Porthos laughs. “ _You_ try to keep a straight face through that. Even the Captain laughed!”

“As well he should, I learned that one from him,” Aramis chuckles softly. “Next time I’ll translate it into Spanish, to save your blushes.” 

Porthos snorts and shakes his head. He settles the pitcher down on the table, and unfolds the bundle beneath his arm. It’s a blanket. “Whatever are you thinking?” Aramis asks. “I’m quite warm enough, thank you. Too warm, in fact.”

“It’s not for you,” Porthos says. He moves to the window and raises the blanket to drape it over the shutter, carefully tucking it behind the slats. Aramis blinks as the light dims, blessed darkness falling upon the room. “Is that better?” Porthos asks, reduced to a shadowy shape in the muted light.

“Much,” Aramis says softly, blinking his strained eyes in relief. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Porthos says, and hovers over Aramis on the bed. “You’re too warm, you said? Do you want a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Aramis says immediately, his stomach churning at the thought of it. “I’d only bring it back up.”

“Then do you mind if I help you cool off?” Porthos asks. Aramis issues a tight shake of his head.

Porthos takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dips it into the pitcher of water. He wrings it out a little before settling on the edge of the bed, leaning over Aramis. "Close your eyes," he says, and Aramis does so without hesitation.

He sighs softly when Porthos dabs the handkerchief over his face, the water cool and refreshing against heated skin. Porthos’ touch is gentle and caring; Aramis has always thought it would be, despite his strong hands.

He has spent rather too long thinking about those hands, he suspects. Now he finds he appreciates their touch in quite a different way than he had ever hoped to.

He should probably feel bad for such a thought.

Porthos wets the handkerchief several more times in the next few minutes. He moves over Aramis’ face and down onto his throat; Aramis tips his head back without thought, to give him better access. Porthos chuckles softly, but says nothing. Aramis does not feel mocked. Porthos has never made him feel belittled, even as they trade fond insults back and forth.

“What else helps you?” Porthos asks, his voice soft in the low light.

Were he not struggling to think, with a lingering ache in his head, Aramis would not have replied. But with his mind fuzzy and his thoughts slowed, the words escape before he can stop them. “My hair.”

“What about your hair?” Porthos asks, amusement colouring his voice, and Aramis lifts a hand to hide his face. Porthos gently bats it away, chuckling at him. “No, it’s too late to take it back. You might as well just tell me.”

“You ask too much of me,” Aramis grumbles, well aware that he’s flushing.

“All I'm asking is for you to talk, and usually I can hardly stop you,” Porthos retorts, and gives his cheek a gentle pat. “C’mon. Out with it.”

“Fine,” Aramis sighs, and deliberately keeps his eyes shut. “I feel better when - when people play with my hair.”

“Is that it?” Porthos asks after a moment of silence. He sounds so fond, so amused, that Aramis cannot help but open his eyes to see his smile. “I thought it was going to be something terrible. Lift up, then.”

“Pardon?” Aramis asks as Porthos straightens up. He cannot mean to - surely he must be misunderstanding?

It seems not. “Lift yourself up,” Porthos says patiently. Aramis does so, propping himself up on trembling arms, and blinks in astonishment as Porthos kicks his boots off and settles behind him on his bed. He shuffles back to lean against the wall at the head of the bed, legs spread wide with one foot on the floor, and pats his thigh. “Come on, then.”

“I don’t follow,” Aramis manages, his head spinning as he looks back over his shoulder. He closes his eyes after a second with a groan; the wobbling lines in his vision are distorting Porthos’ face.

“It really messes with your head, doesn’t it? It’s like you can hardly think. Lie back,” he says softly, and reaches out to guide Aramis down. 

He lets Porthos take control, moving as he wishes until he lies with his head pillowed on Porthos’ thigh.

It is startlingly intimate.

Aramis' breath catches as he blinks uncertainly up at Porthos. He is a tactile person, has always been so, and although he has known Porthos for just a few months it had not taken long for him to feel comfortable with him physically. He thinks nothing of draping an arm over Porthos’ shoulder, or sitting pressed along his side as they share a meal.

He has told himself repeatedly that this is just what friends do. Has even come close to believing himself, once or twice.

Now, though, as he looks up at Porthos and takes in the warmth smouldering in his gaze, and the inviting curl of his smile, he suspects he has not been the only person telling half-truths about their friendship.

“Is this all right?” Porthos asks, and Aramis is not so far gone to miss the shake in his voice.

“It’s fine,” he says softly.

“Sure?” Porthos says, with a hand hovering over Aramis’ hair; not quite touching, but so close to it. “Comfortable?”

“Very,” Aramis says, making a show of settling down. “But are you certain you want this?”

“I want to help you," Porthos insists, but the smile he wears suggests he is anything but unhappy with the arrangement. Aramis arches an eyebrow at him, and Porthos shrugs. “Besides, it’s not exactly a hardship.”

Were he at his best, Aramis would no doubt have something to say about precisely how hard something is with him nestled against his thigh, but Porthos picks that moment to run his fingers through his hair, and Aramis loses the ability to form coherent thought.

If the touch of his strong fingers against his skin is relaxing, their soft drag through his hair is bliss. It has always been a particular love of his, the feel of somebody playing with his hair; whether the touch is light and teasing, or strong and commanding and inflicting just enough sharp pain to make him pay attention, Aramis is delighted.

Porthos is not hurting him in the slightest, of course. His fingers run lightly through his hair, stroking his scalp with the most delicate of touches, designed to tease the tension from his body. Within moments Aramis' eyes flutter closed and he lets out a shameless groan of relief; when Porthos resumes the gentle movement of the cool cloth against his face with his free hand at the same time, Aramis melts against him with a whimper.

“How did you find out that this helped, then?” Porthos asks, his voice a warm rumble that wraps around Aramis' relieved body as he basks in his attention. “Somebody playin’ with your hair, I mean.”

“My mother would do it for me,” he says. Were he not so relaxed, and so bone-weary, he would have stopped there. He is tired enough that he cannot help but add, “As would Marsac.”

“Oh?” Porthos says softly. He fans his hand over Aramis' head and lightly scrapes blunt nails over his scalp. Aramis sighs, helpless against this treatment. “A friend of yours?”

“A musketeer,” Aramis whispers, focusing on the delicious scrape of his nails. It is easier to speak of this than he had expected; perhaps enough time has passed. Or perhaps it is simply that Porthos makes it easy. “We’re... We were close.”

“Like _we’re_ close?” Porthos asks, his voice light. His fingers brush through Aramis’ hair gently, the handkerchief moves slowly over the scar at his temple, and Aramis swallows.

“Not quite, I think,” he says softly, and keeps his voice steady. “But I think... perhaps, that we may be getting there.”

“I’d like that,” Porthos says, his own voice close to a whisper. “To be close to you.”

They fall quiet then, the silence wrapping around them like a warm blanket, broken only by Aramis’ slow breathing. He feels better, at last, the throbbing in his head lessened to a mere ache, and he feels certain that he will sleep before long.

Aramis has no idea how much time has passed when Porthos eventually lifts the handkerchief away. “Is this helping?” he murmurs, and Aramis’ eyes flutter open to see him wearing an expression of open concern.

It twists in his stomach, so he offers up a smile, pleased when Porthos returns it. “It is,” he whispers, and Porthos’ smile widens. He reaches out then, fingers chasing a rivulet of water as it runs down Aramis’ cheek; Aramis’ breath catches. He swallows as Porthos hesitates, eyes darting over him, from his eyes to his parted lips, before he repeats the action, his fingers smoothing over Aramis’ cheek.

Aramis raises a hand to catch hold of Porthos, shaking fingers wrapping around his own damp touch. “Why are you doing this for me?” he whispers, looking up at Porthos.

“Are you telling me you really don’t know?” Porthos asks, his voice rough. 

Aramis blinks up at him, his heart beating double time. “Because we’re friends?” he says, but he is wrong, he realises as he gazes up into dark, fond eyes. He is wrong, and he has never been happier about it.

“Because I _care_ ,” Porthos corrects him, with a small smile. Even in the dim half-light Aramis can see the hope in his eyes.

He squeezes Porthos’ fingers tightly, a joy he has not felt in months suddenly swelling in his own chest. “I care, too,” he says softly. “More than I can say.”

He surges up despite his aches and closes the gap between them, claiming Porthos’ lips with his own. His eyes close, not only to shut out the light once more, but to focus entirely on a kiss he has wanted for months. 

Porthos wraps an arm around him to hold him up without hesitation, allowing Aramis to melt into his hold. He slides a hand into Porthos’ hair and tightens his fingers in the curls, wanting to be even closer to him as their tongues brush briefly. It is a soft caress, tender and sweet rather than the bruising, passionate kiss that he had pictured would be their first, but it is no less heartfelt for its gentle nature. 

He feels Porthos’ lips spread into a smile when he pulls away after a long moment, and he makes a soft noise of satisfaction. Aramis tries to close the gap between them again, to claim Porthos' lips endlessly, but a large hand presses over his chest, guiding him back down onto Porthos’ thigh. “Can we hold off on any more for now?” Porthos asks softly, and his tone is so sweet, so fond, that Aramis does not worry for a moment that he has been rash in his actions.

“As you wish. But why?”

“I want to wait until you’re feeling better.”

“Very well. But I’m certainly able to handle a few moments of intimacy,” Aramis says stubbornly, though exhaustion still lies heavily upon him, despite Porthos’ tender care. 

Porthos snorts and shakes his head, the gesture both incredulous and fond. “You reckon so? I don’t think you could handle so much as a handshake right now, let alone anything else. But it’s not that. I’d... I don't want us to do anything while you're not yourself,” he admits, and the shy look he gives Aramis is so precious it takes his breath away. He brushes his thumb over Aramis’ cheek in warm strokes as he takes a moment to gather his words. “I need to know you really mean it. It’s not that I doubt you, I just… I want to be sure of myself. I need to know I’m not taking advantage of you. Does that make sense?” 

“It does,” says Aramis immediately, as all stubborn arguments for rushing ahead melt away. “Perfect sense.”

Porthos nods. His eyes dart over Aramis, not meeting his gaze for long. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you limping into the garrison all those months ago, and now I can have it, I’m putting it off. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s considerate,” Aramis insists. “And you’re not taking advantage of me in the slightest, but I won’t have you doubting yourself. We’ll wait. I will do whatever will make you happy, Porthos. But allow me this,” he adds, and turns his head quickly to press a kiss to the palm of Porthos' hand.

Porthos’ eyes meet Aramis’, widening in brief surprise, before he laughs and buries his hand in Aramis’ hair once again. Aramis lets his eyes close as he leans into the touch.

He’s not sure how much time has passed before Porthos breaks the comfortable silence. “You feeling better?”

“Mm, much,” he manages.

“You close to sleeping, d'you reckon?”

“Not far off it.”

“Want me to leave?”

He wraps an arm possessively around Porthos' thigh to cuddle closer to it. “Certainly not. Don't you dare.”

“You sure?” Porthos asks.

Aramis cracks his eyes open to look at Porthos through his lashes. Porthos groans instinctively; Aramis hides his smirk against his thigh. “I'm sure. Stay here with me? Please?”

Porthos sighs, long-suffering, but fails to suppress a smile of his own. “Well, since my own bed is missing a blanket now, I suppose I can manage a night in yours.”

“Just one night?” Aramis asks, and if he flutters his eyelashes, he feels no shame in it. He will use every weapon in his arsenal if it ensures Porthos remains with him.

Porthos chuckles, but does not answer for a moment. Instead he gently prises Aramis off his thigh, and shuffles down onto the bed to lie himself out, gathering Aramis close to his chest. He wraps an arm around him, his fingertips toying with the hairs at the back of Aramis' neck. “No. Not just one night,” Porthos murmurs.

“As it should be,” Aramis says, supremely satisfied. He yawns, and relaxes against Porthos, already drifting pleasantly.

The last thing he's aware of before he slips into sleep is the press of Porthos’ lips against his soothed head, warm, and fond, and full of promise.


End file.
